


I Am a Vessel, As Yet I Have No Name

by Nicole_Silverwolf



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Dark, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Minor Original Character(s), More characters to be added, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-11-01
Packaged: 2020-11-25 18:44:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20916809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nicole_Silverwolf/pseuds/Nicole_Silverwolf
Summary: The beauty of places as vast as Hallownest...they hold so many stories. Some of them joyous, many more tragic. All worth knowing.Short stories for both Hollowtober and mixed with other “tober” prompts 2019. Tags will expand as chapters are added.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine. The end.
> 
> The title is a modification of the first line from 'I Am a Cat' by Soseki Natsume.
> 
> Apologies if this is clunky, I'm super out of practice writing stuff for fun and while I'm enjoying it, things feel rusty.
> 
> My work schedule is definitely going to prevent me from keeping up with the schedule (as you can already tell). But I'd like to keep writing consistently and I recently returned to replay Hollow Knight and fell in love all over again with this extraordinary game.
> 
> While I don't intend all of these to be unrelentingly bleak, some are definitely meant to go there. The lore of Hallownest certainly conveys both a deep and complicated past, a curious mystery and unspeakable tragedy sometimes in the same instant.
> 
> Comments are always welcome.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because the process of discovery is never a straight line no matter who attempts it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hallowtober 1: Discovery
> 
> Whumptober 1: Shaky Hands
> 
> This is one of the bleaker ones as an FYI.

It was almost unbearably still in the Abyss. Despite its vast depth and breadth, no air currents flowed the deeper one descended. Despite the liquid sea of void there was no humidity. Silence pressed down on all who entered.

Each turning of the world brought a new crop of vessels to the precipice before a door marked with the King's Brand barred further progress. Even as countless numbers crashed below, the sound of cracking mask did not reach the platform.

The Pale King had an efficient system in place to sort through the voidlings, one designed to be quick and in a way merciful. There was no room for error in this endeavor. A pure vessel must be found; his people, the bugs of countless other kingdoms did not deserve the fate the Radiance spread like an infection. No cost was too great.

His was the only will that could act. And so despite the misgivings of many, he continued. Surely this process would have an end. One that justified all that was sacrificed before it.

Weak morning light spilled onto the bone white of vessel masks as two Kingsmould heaved the door open in the early dawn. Despite their diminutive stature, the wyrm king towered over everything present. 

Some masks turned towards the light; reacting (not thinking he firmly noted). Worthy of at least a second glance. 

Others simply remained turned in whatever direction they had paused after arriving on the platform. Those were easiest to cull. Too empty to train or act he shoved them with an efficient hand over the edge. 

Then came those with obvious physical defects. Cracked masks. Malformed or missing limbs. Despite the prowess demonstrated by climbing from the depths below they would never be able to defeat an old god like the Radiance. Deficiencies like those were easy to spot and his hands were fast and sharp as they pushed them out into the still air.

Rarely did more than a few remain after that. Frustrating but not unexpected.

Pale white limbs poked and prodded what remained. Some allowed the prodding without any resistance. Void lashed back from others, unconstrained and vicious. Too much tolerance to damage and they would never fight back. Too little and they would resist training and orders. He sent both types over the edge with a shove.

Finally only three remained. Clustered furthest away from the door he wondered how he had missed them to that point.

One was typical in its design, fitted with a curved mask that was symmetrical and unremarkable. What drew him to pause were the two others.

Both were abnormally small, less than half the size of the ordinary. One's horns had barely formed; smooth nubs protruded from the bone mask in an uneven pattern. The other had no horns at all nor any holes that had been designed with the intention of appearing as eyes.

When he'd commissioned the Mask Maker for the first prototype the bug had insisted all masks had base features that did not change. Eyes were one of those features.

He should have easily caught this imperfection in the first minutes he had spent sifting through this batch.

It became apparent why in the next moments.

The larger vessel shifted in front of both the others.

Carefully.

Deliberately.

The smaller ones slipped behind the larger in clumsy tandem, quivering like leaves on a tree. A more generous mind would think they were quaking in fear.

But these were vessels.

Which lacked will. Lacked thought.

The Pale King stared.

The ragged mothwing cloak of the larger acted as a shield, effectively hiding the small eyeless one entirely. A limb rested carefully on that one's head, drawing them closer very gently in a parody of comfort. The one with nubs on its head clutched tightly to another piece of cloak, shaking but clearly attempting to imitate the larger one's stance.

In all the hundreds, perhaps thousands of vessels he'd formed and discarded so far, none had seemed aware of their...kin...for lack of a better term. None had certainly displayed concern for others of their kind.

Fury briefly choked the dispassionate methodical evaluation of these objects. How dare these things mock the living? What right did they have to playact at emotions? What had tainted the void and god within it? They were a tool to be wielded against a threat to him and his people. NOTHING more.

His hand was fast as he grabbed the one clutching cloak in a mockery of bravery. Tiny void made hands gripped the fiber but the Pale King was infinitely stronger. There was only an instant of resistance before it had been torn away from the other two and disappeared over the edge.

Heaving a breath he didn't realize he'd drawn, he went to grab the other two.

The thin high noise shocked him in the oppressive silence. He'd heard this sound before. Rarely, bugs would bring their grievously wounded to the palace; desperately seeking help for their loved ones. Sometimes he or his Lady could use soul to heal or soothe. In some cases, even the near infinite power of soul was not enough. Often that same sound accompanied it.

It was terror and horror; the suffering of a child in agony. 

Now it came from the eyeless one, pressed to the larger's side.

The moment seemed to stretch and stretch, the Pale King frozen in shock while the blind vessel wailed. It's larger counterpart pulled the tiny vessel closer and the Pale King imagined the unremarkable thing hauling both of the tiny vessels from the abyss below.

When the larger bent closer to the other, perhaps with the intention of offering further comfort the white wyrm reacted with a panic he had never experienced before. 

His shaking hands shoved them both as hard as he could, the wail of agony never breaking as the two void vessels tumbled off the edge and disappeared into the inky blackness below.

After what seemed like a very long time the sound abruptly cut off.

* * *

_Comments are always welcome. Thanks so much for taking the time to read._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Children are more perceptive than they seem.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am probably bending lore a bit here. Herrah was given precious little time with Hornet after her birth but that time frame is of course open for interpretation. Similarly there isn't any confirmation whether Hornet and the Pure Vessel ever met prior to the in game moments. I imagine that the Pure Vessel existed prior to the deal that the Pale King made with Herrah in exchange for her participation as a Dreamer. 
> 
> Inspiration for this came while scrambling over some sketchy scree on a hike and from an NPR story on parenting (Link if you are interested: https://www.npr.org/2019/10/08/767205198/the-things-parents-dont-talk-about-with-their-kids-but-should )
> 
> Hallowtober: Hollow

  
Hornet was always excited to visit the White Palace. Wide columns, vaulted ceilings and windows that looked onto resplendent gardens cultivated by the queen. It was so much more...open than the snug halls of Deepnest. Exploring it was an adventure.

“I have business with the pale wyrm today and I wish you to accompany me,” her mother had murmured. Hornet offered only a partially aware “okay” in response. Despite it being the earliest hours of the morning she was ready to leave quickly (never mind that she fell back asleep mere minutes after her mother slung her gently between broad shoulders).

Several hours later and eager to be perceived an adult, the youngling slipped from Herrah's back. Straightening the new crimson cloak she wore and sliding her nail to its proper place with ease. Herrah gave an approving trill before turning towards the approaching party.

“Thank you for making the journey Herrah. Time grows short and there is much to discuss.”

The Pale King's voice seemed strained in a way that Hornet could not pin point.

“Hello papa,” she intoned. Decorum her teachers had dictated meant she was “too old” to run and jump as she once had in the palace. It was hard (and confusing...who made these rules?), but she held herself still.

He however seemed uninterested in protocol. The pale wyrm slowed his stride when he caught sight of her and bent gently to her level. A hand settled firmly on her mask in greeting, lingering when she tilted slightly to meet his eyes.

“Hello little bit. I hear you have been training with a nail since you were last here.”

Hornet nodded shyly before drawing it out eagerly to present.

“I can use it to fly now. Momma and the weavers showed me how to use silk!”

The smile he offered was warm.

“I will have to see it before you leave.” He seemed excited in the quiet way he often was with her.

Hornet gave a big nod, her face lighting up at the prospect.

“Don't let me forget alright?” he teased gently when he drew back up to his height, diminutive though it was.

“I won't,” she promised.

Lurien was among the retinue, along with Monomon, each looking like they had not slept in many turnings. Hornet knew both of them but only as one might know far distant relatives seen infrequently. Several other lower bugs were there as well, servants or aides or something similar.

“Stay here and behave little one,” Herrah intoned gravely. Hornet nodded solemnly and scrambled onto a bench situated just outside the door. She could definitely sit still.

Definitely.

Certainly.

Not a problem at all.

But this place was ideal for training with her needle and the new silk she had finally spun all by herself.

Inordinately proud was perhaps underselling her feelings on the matter.

It would be a shame to simply sit when she could be improving her skills.

Her mother had become a fierce hunter, a BEAST no less by honing her skill. Not sitting and waiting for a meeting to be over. And Queen Vespa often said that work was the most noble thing one could do. It was never still or quiet in the hive that was for certain.

She was off the bench and swiftly trotting towards the training arena without a backwards glance.

The halls were strangely empty of servants and Kingsmould alike. Even the great knights seemed to be gone.

Odd.

But not enough to deter her from her plan.

The training arena was sparse but large; designed to train one for both combat and to traverse the varied lands that made up Hallownest.

The first sharp cast of her nail rang true, the narrow tip embedding itself into a crack in the rock several yards above her. Pulling the silk taut as she'd practiced with the weavers she ricocheted herself to the nail, clinging to the wall before starting the process again. It wasn't graceful but it was getting the job done and quickly she was high above the ground. In Deepnest it was hard for her to find wide open space with varied holds, at least without Midwife or some lower caste chastising her for the impropriety of it all (not that she understood what that meant exactly but the adults certainly were upset about it).

Pleased with her progress she looked for her next target, leaning far out over the ledge she was clinging to. Perhaps the capital of that column far above and directly to the North? It was far, though not impossibly so.

But handling silk threads was new to her and juggling the cords along with her needle and hand holds was complicated. It was only for a moment that she meant to grab for both her needle and the thread with the same limb but it was more than enough to lose her grip on both.

A gasp was the only sound she let out. Hornet tumbled fast grabbing blindly and missing each ledge in her panic.

Just as the ground rushed to meet her she jolted to a rough but not injurious halt.

The silent tall figure was gentle as she heaved in deep breaths of fading fear. It was only a moment before her eyes popped open in a mixture of relief and joy.

“Hollow!” she giggled with excitement.

The tall knight was indeed grasping her in their long arms, careful and strong in equal measure. They tilted their mask very slightly to peer at her. Probably with the stare all adults gave when she'd done something she wasn't supposed to. She wiggled until they lowered her to the ground.

“You're here! I missed you!” she declared with a head tilted up as far as it could go. No one called Hollow by the name she'd given him but that just made it a special secret between the two.

During her visits she had mastered one sided conversations with this older half sibling. They were an excellent listener in turn. Sometimes they were assigned to watch her but often she sought them out instead. Once very memorably in the middle of the night after a nightmare. Herrah would have probably torn down the walls of the palace if their sibling hadn't arrived at her door cradling a tiny Hornet swaddled in one of the vessel's old cloaks.

She'd gravitated to them naturally and sincerely.

“Look! I got a nail, just like yours...except mama calls it a needle. I'm training with it whenever I can to become just like you!” She proffered the item eagerly and they bent closer to observe much like the king had earlier. “Watch me; I'm getting much better.”

The scare of the fall forgotten; Hornet leapt onto a ledge just above their head and demonstrated her skills. She cast her needle out and reeled it in on the silk; the sharp “SHAW” called with each throw. Form followed function as she moved deliberately through the newest kata she had been taught just the other day. Her grip on the needle was firm and careful, modeled after the way she'd observed Hollow grasp Pure Nail.

For their part, the knight did seem to be observing, holding still like a statue while also swiveling their head to keep her in sight.

Soon Hornet had tired out.

Panting but also beaming she bounded to her sibling's side. They had seated themselves on a bench, perhaps to make it easier to watch Hornet's display. With a very slight bounce she joined them, folding her knees under her and her cloak to boost her just a tiny bit more.

“I'm training really hard. Queen Vespa is a tough teacher but she says it's really important I excel. Will we get to spar one day? I bet you can teach me a lot. Then I can help you defend our people from anything that threatens them.”

Immediately the mood seemed to shift. The vessel turned slowly to stare down a long hallway towards the throne room. It seemed like they had suddenly forgotten she was there. Hornet didn't like it.

“I'm sure Papa will let us practice together. I've seen you in the training arena with the knights. You're better than ALL of them!”

They stared, somehow more intensely than before. It was only after Hornet's confusion lead her to observe more carefully that she noticed it. Fine tremors seemed to wrack her sibling from head to toe. They always had a hand on their nail (except for the instances she'd beg them to pick her up so she could tower over everyone but mama). But now that hand gripped the hilt in a way that seemed painful. Like they hoped to hide the shaking by just holding on harder.

“Hollow,” Hornet ventured, “is everything okay?”

The knight did not respond. It made Hornet nervous in a hard to define way. There were plenty of things that made her nervous and even some that scared her, not that she would admit to it to anyone other than her sibling. Only a few things seemed to make adults scared though.

“Are you scared about the black temple in the crossroads?”

No one had explained it to her but what little information she had gleaned from listening where she wasn't supposed to implied that there was something bad in there. It must be very bad then. Worse than the ghosts the weaver's would tell her about that haunted your dreams. Was it dangerous to go into? If Hollow was shaking, what if it was really REALLY bad? What if it was going to hurt someone? Someone like her sibling.

“There's something evil in there isn't there?”

That shook the elder from their thoughts. They turned to look at her fully, without accusation but also with some concern. She tried to sound brave but her voice faltered just a bit when she voiced her fear.

“Mama keeps talking about something called an infection. She doesn't think I know but I'm good at listening and hiding in small spaces. Is that where it's coming from...that temple?”

Hollow's long horns tilted in acknowledgement barely. They never seemed to move more than they needed to.

“And you're going to fight it?”

Another nod of acknowledgement.

This made little sense to Hornet. She didn't think you fought infections with nails and knights?

That was why Papa was training Hollow. Why mama brought them here so often. Maybe why Lady Monomon and Sir Lurien were around a lot as well. All the adults must be helping to get Hollow ready for this battle. Were Papa or the knights going to fight it too? Papa was a grown up (never mind that Hollow was as well).

“All the older bugs are helping you right? So I'm sure you can win with their help. Mama is a great fighter and I know papa is very short but he's a king. He must be super strong. No WAY the thing in that temple can beat all of you!”

Hollow seemed hesitant. They didn't contradict her but also didn't seem very bolstered by her assurance. It dampened Hornet's enthusiasm slightly.

“Besides. I need you around to teach me all the important things. The weaverlings in Deepnest have so many siblings and I just have you.”

And that was maybe the scariest part. The black egg temple was far away from her homes in Deepnest and the White Palace. In fact she'd only seen the temple drawn on a map. And everything else around them seemed fine. Sure Herrah had been keeping her close, spending more time with her than Hornet could recently remember but wasn't that a good thing? Even Papa seemed less reserved. They were waiting to see her demonstrate her nail skills.

But what if something was really wrong? Were all these good things...not actually good? What if Mama and Hollow and Papa and all the rest went to fight the infection and they didn't come home?

Hornet didn't realize she was fisting her tiny hands in her deep red cloak until she felt a hand rest on her head. Hollow was looking at her, calm as they always were. Their hand was heavy but gentle, a reminder of the strength in the Pure Vessel. She didn't even realize there was a tear rolling down her mask until their thumb gently wiped it away.

“You have to come home when you're finished,” she insisted in an imperious tone befitting her title as a princess. Leaning in she gripped the soft white fabric of the knights mantle to make her point.

“Promise.”

The hand slid from her head slowly. Hornet's eyes were fierce as she stared her elder down. They met her gaze with something that she imagined was equally filled with purpose. While they didn't nod, she was certain there was a promise in Hollow's seemingly empty gaze.

“Good,” she pronounced in the way that children often did when a matter was settled. Hollow did not object, allowing her to squirm and maneuver herself until satisfied. Eventually she cuddled against their side as she had done when she was much younger. Neither sibling spoke until Herrah's voice could be heard calling for her daughter.

Hornet huffed in annoyance and unfolded from her comfortable lean.

“Mama says we have to go,” she translated. Hornet wasn't sure whether Hollow had learned the spider's language but it was better to be safe than sorry. The elder nodded slightly.

“Don't forget your promise,” She gave a quick half hug to her sibling and nimbly leapt off the bench.

Trotting down the hall she glanced back to give a happy wave with her needle. “See you soon Hollow!”

Owari


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sometimes a neighbor whom we have disliked a lifetime for his arrogance and conceit lets fall a single commonplace remark that shows us another side, another man, really; a man uncertain, and puzzled, and in the dark like ourselves."  
-Willa Cather

“Who goes there? Though I cannot see well, my ears work fine. You move slow. Are you one of the shaman tribes? Come forth come forth.” The Seer leaned heavily against her staff, alert but not on guard. The resting grounds were devoid of living soul most days. Death was still a taboo subject for the citizens of Hallownest and they rarely ventured forth into these halls and caves.

While the Pale King had offered her a form of amnesty in his kingdom, he did not command his citizens. Infinitely grateful for this kindness it also meant life for a moth was hard. Here, surrounded by the monuments to the long dead she had found some measure of safety and peace.

Visitors were rare, visitors with purpose even more so.

The very slight rustle of cloth and shell slowed and then stopped.

“Hmmm. Hmmm. Another outcast in this land of outcasts.”

The shaman was dressed in a long robe which alternated in warm bronze and blue tones. Their headgear covered most of their features, but a pair of sharp eyes gazed at the moth from behind an ornate staff.

“Indeed,” the moth replied. “Like your kind, I have been shunned by the people of this land.” She gestured to the headstones and crypts. “Better to spend my days in the company of those who will not spit upon me for daring to exist.”

“Wise words,” they acknowledged with a sly tone. “Though our kind at least did not worship the fallen god of light.”

The Seer snorted in annoyance. Just like one of this tribe to look down their nose at the moths.

“Perhaps. But then again, was it not your kind's practices that caused you to be driven away from the bugs of this land? I heard you eat the bodies of the dead. Is that how you absorb their soul, how you learned to channel it hmm?”

Her tone was no more haughty than his. They were hashing over old stories that had long been a part of their histories. Neither was likely to convince or change the mind of the other.

“Perhaps. Perhaps.” They noted in a manner that neither confirmed or denied her accusations. “But my cousins are grown now and I am in search of a new mound to bind myself. I hear there is great spiritual energy to be had in this place. Is that true?”

She shrugged with indifference. “The spirits gather in all corners of this land. Many have fallen here before and many will again. I suspect anywhere you choose to build your mound will contain their energy eventually.”

“True. True. My younger cousins have sought mounds in the places of great power. High on the cliffs where the crystals grow, deep in the greens where Unn still reigns, above the bluest lake I have ever seen and the youngest still has set up in the heart of this new kingdom. Too noisy for me personally and no where to truly commune with the bones of this land. Now I seek a place to call my own.”

“Smart to consider a place that will grow in power instead of wane I suppose.”

The moth gestured with her staff, dismissive and annoyed. “Well if you wish to stay here, find a place far from my own. I do not wish to hear the aftermath of your experiments or the droning of your chants.”

“I will. I will. I have no interest in hearing your clattering dream warders banging about either.” They gestured at the particularly large dreamcatcher swaying lazily nearby.

“Well, then we have an understanding,” the Seer confirmed.

“Indeed. Indeed we do.” With a swirl the shaman gathered their robes and staff and shuffled off at the pace they'd arrived at. Excruciatingly slow and methodical.

* * *

Binding oneself to any place took time. The shaman spent many long months hollowing passages and making the tunnels of their mound their own. Supplies were needed for such a task and he could often be glimpsed among the headstones, searching for some tool or another.

“What brings you from your hole?” she would ask when they happened upon each other by. “No need for skulls I hope!”

“None at all. Besides, what use would I have for such decoration?” he would counter. Honestly, just because their youngest cousin had a weird thing about stringing skulls to everything...it wasn't like it was a requirement for their practices.

They traded barbs easily and with the sting of intent most of the time.

“Ha! Ha!!” he would say eventually, lifting some stone or spore from the many others just like it. And with that their conversation would end, each continuing on their way.

The Seer, while mostly self sufficient occasionally had to venture into the city for various supplies as well. Silk was strong and well suited to weaving the dreamcatchers (unsurprisingly*) and traders from Deepnest would intermittently arrive in Hallownest with stock to sell or exchange.

Her trek to the City of Tears and its markets took her past where she could only assume the mound's entrance was. The droning of some foreign chant often greeted her.

“You have a terrible singing voice,” she comments during their next encounter.

“No worse than your crooning while you pray I would wager. Besides, it keeps away the lower beasts and the curious yearling bugs who want to vandalize property for fun.”

The Seer had had many encounters with such young insolent bugs. The tattered state of one of her wings had been caused by an assault involving younglings like that. Losing the ability to fly was a small price to pay in exchange for her life. She would admit to no one that she also now feared another encounter like it though.

A tinge of gratefulness seeped into the cranky send off she gave as they parted ways.

Years passed. Decades eventually. Both the shaman and the seer were long lived bugs and measured the passing of time differently than others.

She continued to weave the intricate hoops, seeking out sacred roots and adorning them as well

It was a lonely existence but a fitting punishment for the crimes she had been but a witness to as a child.

The shaman for his part had bound himself fully to the mound in the last decade. He ventured only to the entrance now. She had seen him sitting outside very occasionally; swaying in the throes of rapture, eyes barely open and the air heavy with soul magic.

He worked with the same diligence as her, building and testing the charm he'd crafted. Like his cousins, toiling away in their mounds, this charm would be his greatest talisman to pass on. It had taken many years to learn how to enter the place between waking and dreaming, where soul was visible like the rock or the water. Even now it required much concentration to enter a fugue state.

His visions in this inbetween realm spoke more and more of the future these days. And that future held shadows and the coming of a terrible calamity. Duty dictated he must prepare and so he did.

* * *

The whispers had returned. Her dreams grew restless and in those dreams she could hear them. Faint, incomprehensible words, gone as she opened her eyes to start the day. But to hear them at all was a sign. And it was not hard to deduce who was responsible.

The peace Hallownest had prospered under was ending.

She stood at the entrance to the mound several months later. “I know you are there,” she declared to the dark tunnel. “You have felt it too haven't you? The return of the old god. The one my people worshipped. Guard well against your dreams. She invades without mercy or regard for tribe.”

It was quiet for a long moment, but then a telltale slow shuffle of cloth and carapace began. Eventually the shaman joined her.

“So. The Radiance found a way to survive,” he said without the malice he might once have accused her with. “I suppose so long as minds can remember her she will forever keep a foothold in these lands.”

“This was the seat of her power. Where she reigned over all. Though the Pale King destroyed her physical form...eradicating her from all existence...that is perhaps even beyond a god like the Wyrm.” The moth was solemn.

“Will you flee?” he asked after a long moment of contemplation.

“And go where? I already hear her in my dreams. Which means she will follow me and eventually find me no matter where I might try to hid. I weave the dreamcatchers to hide me from her gaze, to ensnare her if she ever comes near. But it is a temporary measure at best.”

The shaman looked tired, older than his age holding his staff between both hands. His acknowledgement came slowly.

“I have seen a corrupting, blinding light in the in-between. It burns. I try to avoid rest, but that will not save me will it?”

The Seer shook her head very slightly.

“Why do you tell me this? Surely there is no benefit to you.”

“Despite our many differences over these long years we are both still outcasts. And in the past you showed me kindness by keeping the younglings away. I feel it is only fair to offer you protection as meager as it might be.”

From within the fluff that adorned her body she produced something and offered it.

It was a dreamcatcher, one suitable to fit inside the cramped halls of the mound. It was not an intricate piece or particularly ornamental. Practical would best describe its attributes.

“We both know that the end of this civilization draws near. I wish to offer what help I can to ease the burden that will descend on those who may survive.”

For all the many years they had been living as neighbors their relationship such that it was had been that of mutual tolerance. At best. As he reached out and gently took the gift the shaman had to consider whether they had perhaps both been foolish.

“Thank you,” he offered after a moment. “I'm sorry that I cannot offer you my talisman. I have no extras to spare, and I doubt you wish for the power to collect soul more efficiently.”

“You are right. I would have little use for such a charm. If you would keep up your droning though I would appreciate it. I feel more secure knowing those who might cause harm are kept away, even if only for a short while.”

“I can do that,” he confirmed with a smile in his tone.

“Then we will have prepared as well as we can,” she offered sincerely.

* * *

A few years later, as she laid another brave soul to rest in the Spirit Glade she wondered about him. Last she had passed by his mound there had been only the deepest of silences.

Not overly fond of tight spaces, she waited another several years to venture forth into the mound. The Radiance was in Hallownest now; the king trying his best to rid the kingdom of her influence. The end she knew and feared was coming.

To check on her neighbor was the right thing to do. Certainly there was little to worry about. They had gone many longer years between seeing each other before.

The silence inside the mound remained oppressive even as she ventured deeper in. The air was still and old, not recently disturbed that was for sure. Ultimately it wasn't surprising when she found the end of the warren of tunnels.

Frozen as if a statue, the shaman stood. She had heard of this act, a form of petrification that marked the end of the snail tribe's time on this plane. At his feet was the charm he'd created, intricate swirls of gold and blue just like his pristinely preserved cloak.

And placed within his view, propped against the smoothly formed walls was the dreamcatcher she'd given him.

The sadness came as she half expected it to. How foolish to think that it would not affect her.

When she probed into his mind, the bone deep tiredness was clear. He had been fighting and fiercely. She had to assume it was against The Radiance. Faintly she could make out his last and perhaps most sincere request.

As she woke from the dream, her words rang true and clear. “Of course my friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Most ethnographers believe the dreamcatcher as we refer to and think of them today were passed down from the Ojibwe nation. The Ojibwe word for dreamcatcher asabikeshiinh actually means "spider," referring to the web woven to loosely cover the hoop.
> 
> Hallowtober Day 3: Shaman


End file.
